


No Lies

by unsettled



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Crying, Emotional Sadism, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, M/M, Makeup, POV Tony Stark, Past MJ/Peter, Self-Esteem Issues, Slut Shaming, Verbal Humiliation, Wet & Messy, peter's trying out new things, slight kink negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Peter’s secret, shameful little fantasy— well, it isn’t any worse than Tony’s.If Peter wants to make him cry, Tony will be more than happy to oblige.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 124
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	No Lies

Peter tells him about it in a hushed little whisper, a confession, curled up in Tony’s arms. Doesn’t look away from Tony’s chest, like he’s ashamed, soft and stuttering.

“It’s almost more like a picture in my head than a whole action?” Peter says. “This one image: MJ looking up at me, crying, and it’s made her makeup go all messy, smudged purple and grey around her eyes like a bruise and her lipstick smeared, these dark lines down her cheek.” He shivers. “And I know— I know she’s crying because I’ve done something to hurt her, because I’ve said some awful things, really mean, untrue things. I know it and I don’t feel bad about, I feel really, uh. Really turned on.” 

He tucks himself a little closer, resting his forehead against Tony’s chest. “Sometimes,” he says in a tiny voice, muffled, “that’s it, that’s enough that I come. But not always, and the rest of it— I just. She doesn’t say no or fight, but she doesn’t like it and I do stuff anyway. I don’t— I don’t know why I think those things. What’s wrong with me?”

“Hey, no,” Tony says, tipping Peter’s chin back. “Nothing’s wrong with you, baby. You’re not bad or weird or anything wrong.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to hurt her!” Peter says. “I don’t even like the thought of it any other time, and it’d be awful if she cried. It doesn’t even make any sense anyway, MJ barely ever wears any makeup, especially not like that.”

“It’s not about reality, that sort of thing,” Tony tells him. “Fantasies just throw things together sometimes, stuff you didn’t think would be appealing. Anything can be hot, to someone.”

“I didn’t tell her,” Peter says. “I never would, I know she’d look at me like— I’m never going to tell her, especially not now, but I did ask her once if she’d wear some makeup for sex? I thought— maybe it was just the messiness?” He bites his lip. “She didn’t want to, and I couldn’t really explain why, so we just… didn’t. It felt bad. I kinda wish I hadn’t told you.”

“Well, I’m glad you told me. It doesn’t tend to end well, keeping those bottled up and hidden,” Tony says. “You know I like some strange stuff.”

“It’s not the same,” Peter mutters.

“It is,” Tony says, kissing Peter’s forehead. They stay curled up like that, Peter still tense under Tony’s hands. “Is— is it MJ specific?” Tony asks, carefully.

“What?”

“Do you only ever have that sort of fantasy about MJ?” Tony tries. “Or is the fact that it’s MJ what makes it hot?”

“Uh… I don’t think so?” Peter says. “I’ve kinda had stuff like it before I was interested in MJ, so. It’s not just her.” He’s quiet while Tony thinks. “Does that make it better or worse?” and he’s gotten all quiet and miserable sounding again. 

“Neither,” Tony says, firmly. “It just makes it easier.”

*

When Tony’s gotten everything together—when he’s thought it through, as much as he can, planned things out—he sits Peter down.

“I have… a surprise for you,” he tells Peter. “Hopefully something you’ll like. Maybe not, maybe it won’t work at all, but then again if it does—”

“Tony,” Peter says. “Go back, you’re pulling a me.” Tony snorts. 

Dumps the bag next to him on the bed between them, makeup tumbling out. 

Peter stares at it. “What—” he says, and then seems to lose his words. He touches one of the tubes of lipstick with the tip of his finger.

“It won’t bite,” Tony says, which gets him a glare. “So, you said this wasn’t MJ specific, right?”

“It— what?” Peter says. “Are you— you’d wear it? For me? For this crazy thing? Seriously, that’s not— uh.”

“It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve worn it,” Tony says. “What?” he adds when Peter frowns at him. “It was the eighties, okay? Everyone was doing it. It’s more that I don’t know if it will work for you if it’s me.”

“It would work,” Peter says, dazedly, which is a great sign. “Are you sure about this? I mean, I can’t— how would I even make you cry, I don’t want to say those things to you! Even if they didn’t work on you, cause why would they? You’re all—” and he waves his hands, like that’s supposed to mean something.

“All that?” Tony says, grinning.

“Ugh, I mean, all put together and confident and stuff,” Peter says, and he should know by now how much of that is surface level. 

“You could make me cry,” Tony tells him. “Wouldn’t even have to be that mean, just hit certain spots the right way. And it helps if I’m sort of… in the right mindset. It’s—” Okay, he hasn’t brought this up with Peter yet, because Peter hasn’t really shown much interest in this sort of thing aside from this one little fantasy. 

“I don’t mind being treated like that,” Tony says. “Under the right circumstances, I can even, well. Like it. Or, not  _ like _ it, but enjoy it. Get off to it, at least.” Peter’s staring at him, wide eyed. “You’re not the only freak here,” Tony says.

“You’re not a freak,” Peter says immediately. “But— really? You could? You do?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I can tell you what would work best for the… intended effect, on me. And if that isn’t working, you can always get some tears out of me with a good face fucking.”

Peter blushes, but Tony knows he would like that. Both of them would. 

“We won’t mess around with any sort of consent stuff, okay?” Tony says. “If I say stop or no or anything like that, you can be sure it means exactly that. I don’t want you worrying about that for this. Not this time.” Peter nods, because they’ve talked about this, vaguely, before. 

“Just—” Tony hesitates, because this is the only part he’s not sure of. He doesn’t want to freak Peter out. “If it works really well, I might take a while to stop, even after you have? I can get… overwrought. Get so caught up it’s not easy to snap out of it and stop feeling like that. Do you understand that?”

“I think so,” Peter says. “I need to be patient?”

“Yeah, but as much— don’t freak out and start thinking you’ve done something wrong, or broken me. All I need is time and something to cling to and it’ll pass.” 

“Okay,” Peter says. “I think I can do that.” 

Tony gestures at the makeup spread out between them. “Then why don’t you pick out a few things.” 

*

Peter just stares when Tony comes out of the bathroom. 

Stares and stares and stares, completely frozen. “I know I look good,” Tony says, “but come on kid, don’t you want to do something about it?”

“I— oh my god, Tony,” Peter says, almost a whisper, shocked. “You— you look really—”

Tony walks up to him while he’s still stammering his way through that; kisses him on the cheek, leaving a perfect red lip print. “I look really what?”

Peter swallows. “Really hot,” he says, finally. “You look really, really hot. Way better than I imagined.” 

“So it’s working for you?”

“Yes,” Peter says, nodding. “So working.” 

“Okay, baby,” Tony tells him, “you know what you want, and you know what I will take.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asks yet again. “Completely sure?”

“Completely sure,” Tony says, and sinks down on his knees. “Make me cry.”

“Oh god,” Peter whispers. He touches Tony’s face gently, his fingers trailing over his cheeks, the faint blush tinting them; across his eyelids, the dark purple black smokey eye Tony spent longer than he should have on; slowly catching his lips, dragging the bottom one down, the cheap dark red probably already smearing.

Peter kisses him, a soft touch. Pulls back and makes a face. “Ick,” he says. “Tastes gross.”

Tony mock pouts, a little teasing. “You don’t like it?”

There’s a hesitation, Peter’s hand coming back to press against Tony’s lips. “No,” he says, and it’s still a lot uncertain, worried. “I— I don’t. It makes you look like a joke. Like a— a freak.”

It’s amazing how hard that hits Tony, even though he expected every word. Even though he knows Peter doesn’t mean a syllable of it. He still feels his face heat, and the smile drops off his face. “It does?” he says.

Peter’s hand is still on his face; he’s tense, nervous, and his grip is a little too tight. “It makes you look like a whore,” he says, looking almost shocked at himself for saying it. He presses his thumb hard against Tony’s lips, rubbing it over them. “A cheap one,” Peter says. “The kind that you don’t even have to pay because they’d do it all for free. You’d— you’d do it all free, every single gross, filthy, obscene thing I could think of. Wouldn’t you?”

It’s as much the dull pain of Peter’s hand as the words that make Tony’s eyes sting, the corners a little wet. But the words— “I would,” Tony says, quietly, staring up at Peter. 

“You’re a slut,” Peter says, and Tony shudders. Peter jolts, pulling his hand from Tony’s chin and looking down at him, trying to figure it out. It was a good shudder, as good as it could be from being called a name like that, but Peter probably doesn’t quite believe it even though Tony told him. “It’s disgusting,” Peter says, carefully, watching him.

And a moment later, soft and startled; “Oh.” 

Peter tips Tony’s head back and looks down his body instead. “You’re hard,” he says. “You— you really do like this,” and it’s still soft, surprised. “You like me calling you a slut,” he says.

Tony drops his eyes, feeling that first flutter of shame in his stomach. “Oh,” Peter says again. “You  _ like _ it,” and it’s sharp this time, twisted into something unkind, in a way he wasn’t sure Peter could do.

“Peter,” Tony whispers.

“That’s— you’re disgusting,” Peter says. “You know that, right? Under everything, you’re just a nasty whore.”

Tony sucks in a breath, his chest tight, his cock twitching. Holy shit, he didn’t think Peter really had it in him. 

He doesn’t look up, but Peter’s hand is on his face, forcing him to. “Say it,” Peter says, a little softer. “Tell me that you know it’s true.” He rubs his thumb over Tony’s lips, onto his cheek; Tony can feel the lipstick smearing, the stiff tackiness of it on his skin. 

“I know it,” Tony says. “I know I’m just— just a whore,” and there’s some truth to it, under everything. All he has, is, has been for sale at one point or another. That sick feeling spreads, grows.

Peter’s silent for a moment, spreading the lipstick further. “It’s the only reason anyone wants you,” he says, distantly, cool. “You’re only good for sex, aren’t you.”

It hits, hard, and even though Tony told Peter to say it like that, to tell him no one wanted him, it hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut, feels that shame rise, squirmy. “I’m good at other things,” he whispers.

“Are you really?” Peter says. “Are you good enough at any of those things for people to want you?” and the answer is no, Tony knows it’s no. He holds his breath, fighting back the start of tears. “Maybe they want your money,” Peter adds, “or your name, or the things you make for them, but you’re useless for anything else. They don’t want  _ you. _ I mean, look at you,” so sharp and disappointed that it does it, it sends Tony hurtling into that awful sick feeling, feeling it close around him. 

“Oh,” Peter says, and then both his hands are on Tony’s face, cupping his cheeks. Brushing at the first tears slipping down his cheeks, probably not enough to make anything run yet. “Look at you,” softer but still mocking. “Look at how easily you cry, over just a few words. Just a little name calling. Just because no one wants you.”

They come faster, because Tony knows there’s some truth to it. No one wants him, wants whatever is hiding behind the Tony Stark™ that he wraps around himself every day, just like the Iron Man armor. 

“No one wants you,” Peter says. “Look at me!” Tony opens his eyes, tears sticking his eyelashes together, melting the mascara. “No one wants you,” Peter repeats, looking straight at him, into him, laid bare. “If you could see yourself, you’d know it’s true. Who would want that?”

“No one’s going to love you,” he adds, thumbs rubbing over Tony’s cheeks, coming away with pale shimmer on them. ‘Everyone knows you don’t deserve it. Look at all the things you’ve done— who could ever forgive you for that?” 

Tony moans, his eyes closing again, and god, he is sick, isn’t he, that this has him wanting to curl up and sob, has him wanting to grab his cock and get off right this second. “Please,” he gasps.

“Please what?” Peter says. “Please want you? Love you? Forgive you? Why should I?” Tony shakes his head, frantically, and reaches for his cock. “Oh, I see,” Peter says. “Please let you touch yourself, like the sick freak you are for getting off on this? Uh, no. Ew. You’re pathetic.”

“Peter,” Tony says, “baby, I—”

Peter leans down, his face close to Tony’s and Tony stares at him, blurred with tears. “You are pathetic,” he says. “Just a sad old man that’s desperate enough to hit on a teenager, like some sort of creep. Hoping that maybe I’d be stupid enough to love you when no one else would.”

God, it’s true; it’s everything he’s denied when it’s an accusation thrown at him, but like this? The simple fact of it stated so simply? “You’re right,” Tony says, “you’re right, you are, I’m pathetic.”

“That’s right,” Peter agrees, sounding almost breathless. He brushes the backs of his fingers under Tony’s eye, pulls them away with black smeared across them. “What a mess you are. Finally the outside matches the inside.” 

“Peter, Peter please,” Tony whispers. “I’m good at something, you said I’m good at something, let me do that for you.”

“I don’t know if I want something as disgusting as you anywhere near me,” Peter says, and Tony could almost believe it. Almost does, because that’s a thought that runs this his head every day; how could Peter want this for real?

“Please, let me try,” Tony says. “Let me, I want— I’m not good for anything else, you said it. Use me for what I can do, anything I can do.”

Peter shoves his leg between Tony’s knees, his shin bumping into Tony’s cock. Tony jerks at the touch, gasps. “If you like it so much,” Peter says, “then you should find it easy to rub off on me like this, like some sort of mindless animal.”

“Oh god,” Tony manages, and Peter’s hand is in his hair, tugging back his head. Peter’s cock is at his mouth, against his lips and sliding in so easily when Tony parts them. Finally, he thinks, finally, he can show Peter he’s good at something, he’s worth keeping around. 

Peter thrusts into his mouth, a few short strokes, and then shoves Tony down on it as far as he can. 

Tony chokes almost instantly, gagging hard around the width of him, eyes tearing up even more. Gasps wetly when Peter withdraws, and then moans and gags again a second later. Peter’s not giving him a chance to adjust, to relax enough for this to be easy, just keeps fucking deep into Tony’s throat and waiting for him to gag before he stops holding him in place. 

“Is this what you call good?” Peter says. He holds Tony on his cock longer that time, long enough Tony starts fighting it, choking and gagging so hard he’s afraid he might throw up. Lets Tony go, finally, Tony jerking back hard enough he almost goes over. “Is it?” Peter asks. “Because it seemed more like you were too busy rubbing off on me to focus on the more important part of this.” 

Shit, he had, at least somewhat, without even realizing it; Peter’s leg is wet with precome.

“So you’re not even good at that,” Peter says. “There really isn’t anything you have to offer,” and he pulls his cock all the way out of Tony’s mouth, stroking it. 

“Please,” Tony says, “I can do better, I can, please let me.”

“Beg harder,” Peter says.

Tony does, he tries, watching Peter jerk himself off as Tony begs to be able to suck him again, to offer him anything; tells Peter he could fuck Tony, could use him, could hurt him, anything at all. 

“The only thing you’re good for is looking at,” Peter says, “shit, Tony— I’m—  _ oh,” _ and he’s coming, Tony jerking and closing his eyes as it hits his face, hot and thick over the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks, on his eyelashes. 

“Oh my god,” Peter says after a moment, a sharp slide from the tone he's been using. “Uh— fuck. You— finish off, finish getting off on me like that. I want to see you come looking all messed up, come just from rubbing off; I thought I was the horny teenager here, but you’re a slut.”

It’s not hard, it’s not hard at all to rut against Peter’s leg and come as fast as he can, not if he thinks about how Peter must be looking at him, at what he must be seeing, everything smeared and running and come on Tony’s face and tears— and Peter had said he was good for looking at, had said that and now he was looking, christ. 

He jerks, folding forward as he comes hard enough for his head to smack into Peter’s hip, getting his mess all over Peter. Peter pushes his head back, ignoring the way Tony’s still shivering, hips moving. “I want to see you,” he says, catching Tony’s neck, holding him there. Tony shivers, a sharp spike through his head at it; he doesn’t want, doesn’t like Peter’s hand there, doesn’t— 

Peter’s hand shifts, sliding more to cup his face, and Tony leans into it. Keeps his eyes closed as Peter tilts his head up, getting a better look probably. He feels cold, a little numb even, but those things aren’t really related. There’s a deep black blankness in his head, a hollow space that could be filled with anything at all; little whispers of thoughts skittering across it. 

Thoughts that he is everything Peter said. Who’s he really kidding, pretending as hard as he can that he’s redeemable, that he can make up for the things he’s done by saving a few people, doing a little good? Everything he attempts is immediately outweighed by the next disaster on his head. Everything he touches ends up twisted, ends up hurting people before he can make it stop. 

No one wants him, and he knows that’s too true. Has seen what happens when he stops trying, the silence that becomes the default, people just grateful he’s gone. Has seen that they’re better off without him around. Not Peter, some part of his head tries to insist. Peter’s not like that. 

Because Peter’s able to love anyone, he thinks, even someone like me, and that’s not a good thing. 

And— it’s true that he used to be good at sex, able to offer that at least, but he’s getting old. He’s getting older by the minute, and more tired, and what he has to offer now isn’t a piece on what he used to. 

Peter’s hands move on his face; when Tony cracks his eyes open, he finds Peter on his level, kneeling in front of him and staring. He’s still flushed, still looking a little dazed. “Holy shit, Tony,” Peter says, trailing his fingers along Tony’s face, through the mess, the tears still dripping down Tony’s cheeks. “That was insane, you look amazing,” and his voice is softer, higher, back to the way he normally sounds after sex. Not that flat, distant way he’d been talking to Tony. 

“That was so much better—hotter—than anything I could have imagined,” Peter whispers. Traces Tony’s lips, his hand dropping to rest under Tony’s chin, and kisses him. It’s soft, gentle; Tony doesn’t deserve that sort of thing, but he closes his eyes again and leans into it. It’s almost too much when Peter kisses him again and again, all along his jaw and his cheek, the tip of his nose, feather light on his eyelids. 

Peter sighs after a while, pulling back. “I guess we’d better get you cleaned up,” he says. “Uh— can you like, get up and walk around and stuff?” Tony nods and lets Peter pull him up, opening his eyes just enough to keep from running into anything as Peter tugs him along. 

He leans against the counter once they’re there, pressing his hands flat against it and trying to gather himself together while Peter does something over there, digging around. He can’t stop crying, this stupid, helpless sort of crying, nearly silent but choking him all the same, tears just dripping from his face constantly. It’s pathetic. He looks up, and— and sees himself. 

The mirror doesn’t lie, he thinks. He really is pathetic. Look at him. Red eyed and red faced, come spattered across his cheek and nose and brow. The shadow around his eyes has spread, diffused and smudged until it looks like he has two black eyes, and the mascara has run all down his cheeks, grey streaks that are rubbed away at points, where Peter’s wiped them away. His lips would have been red regardless, darkened just from the blowjob, but the lipstick makes it more obscene, the way it’s smeared, like a streak of blood along his chin and jaw. 

And all of it cut through with tear tracks, wet and messy and gross, he’s so fucking gross, god. 

“Here,” Peter says, “let’s just— Tony? Hey, are you okay?”

Fuck. He has— he has to pull it together. Has to not freak Peter out, not make Peter think he did something wrong; Tony told him, told him to say no one wanted Tony, that he wasn’t good for anything, he told him to. 

Peter hops up on the counter next to him, his legs swinging. “Tony,” he says, and Tony looks over at him. He doesn’t know what to say. It doesn’t seem to matter; Peter pulls at him gently until Tony takes a few steps to the side, until he’s between Peter’s legs. One of them hooks behind Tony, heel catching on the back of his thigh and holding him in place. 

“You were so hot like that,” Peter says, tilting Tony’s head up. He’s got a washcloth that’s warm and soft and feels ridiculously good when he wipes at Tony’s face. “I was kind of worried I wouldn’t like it? Or it would feel weird? Or— or I’d feel bad, feel too bad and not be able to do it.” He dabs the corner of it around Tony’s eyes, delicate. “But I didn’t, I— you liked it, I could actually tell you liked it and that was crazy hot, that made me feel so good— that I could make you feel good saying those things, doing those things was just. I don’t even know, Tony.”

He leans over to rinse out the washcloth, rewet it, and Tony puts his hands on Peter’s thighs. Peter looks at him, a stutter of a pause. Wipes Tony’s mouth, all that red gone, and kisses him. He kisses Tony like it’s all he wants in the world, slow, soft little kisses that go deeper, go hungry before Peter gentles them again. Tony leans into it, helplessly, wanting. 

“You’re still crying,” Peter says, softly. Tony nods. “I know, you said it’s okay,” Peter says, “but— it is?”

Tony nods again, unable to explain more right this second. He feels sick and hollowed out, and he doesn’t hate it. He folds, dropping his head onto Peter’s shoulder and curling as close to him as he can, starting to shudder as the tears come faster, harder. 

“Oh,” Peter says, “oh god, Tony—” His arms come up around Tony, holding him tightly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, this is— we’re okay. It’s okay if you need this, just… um, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Shit shit shit— he’s asking a lot from Peter here, he tried to warn Peter but this, he’s not prepared for this. “Sorry,” he manages, just a whisper.

“Don’t be sorry,” Peter says. “Please don’t be sorry, cause then I’ll have to be sorry and neither of us need to be, right?” He turns his head a little, kissing Tony’s neck. “You made this not something I need to feel sorry for, I think? I don’t feel as much like a bad person as I thought I would, so— so you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, I don’t mind you crying. I mean, I mind it cause I don’t really want to make you cry, but it’s okay if you do. And you said you would so…”

He trails off, and yeah, that’s Peter, that’s Peter right down to the core, he knows Peter.

“You know what,” Peter says. “This is not the best place for this. Here, just let me—” He tips Tony back, sliding off the counter. Gets a hand around Tony’s waist and one under his ass and lifts him up like it’s nothing, Tony grabbing at Peter’s shoulders. Jesus, that’s hot. 

Peter takes him to bed. Dumps him in it and crawls in after him, curling up with Tony tucked close. “This is better,” he says. “Totally better. Right?”

Tony nods. The tears are slowing a little, and that blankness is starting to fade around the edges, leaving him exhausted more than anything. He wants to hold onto Peter and hide and sleep for a week. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Peter says. He’s got one hand in Tony’s hair, smoothing through it gently. “I can’t believe you made that happen for me,” he says. “You turned it into something even better and I— I can’t even start to thank you enough for that, Tony. It’s crazy how you keep making things happen for me.”

Maybe he’s not just good for sex. “Good for something, then,” he mumbles— fuck, no, he knows that’s not all he’s good for. He does.

“Good for a lot of things,” Peter says. “Uh. Hey, you know— you know I didn’t really mean any of that, don’t you? Like one hundred thousand percent don’t actually think any of those things. It’s all bullshit, that you can’t be redeemed or wanted or loved.” He touches Tony’s cheek, soft, following a tear track down. “I love you.”

The other times he’s done this, most of them said something like that. Not all of them; he’d made the mistake of trying it with a few people who really did believe every horrible thing they said about Tony. He’d thought maybe that would be better, more real, but it was worse. But most of them have tried to reassure him after that they didn’t really  _ mean _ it. 

Most of them—okay, all of them—he hadn’t quite ever believed. Maybe they didn’t mean everything they said, maybe they only believed one tiny part of it, but Tony knows he’s an aching void underneath it all. People know, they see when you play like that. 

“You know,” he tells Peter. “I’ve done this before, the humiliation part at least. And I always wondered, after, how much they meant. How much they believed, regardless of what they said. But— god, Peter. I believe you.”

“Good,” Peter says, fiercely. “Because it’s true.”

“I know,” Tony says, and he does. He actually does. “It’s— different, doing it with someone you know it’s all words for. With someone I trust as much as I apparently trust you. You— you say it different.”

“Tony—”

“Shhh,” Tony says. “It’s not something to really talk about now; I’m still too fucked up to say things right. Tomorrow, alright?”

Peter slides closer, tangling his legs with Tony’s, and kisses him. “Alright,” he says after. “Later.” Lets Tony burrow against him and settle, drift, completely safe for once. 

“You really are insanely hot when you’re messy and crying though,” Peter whispers after a bit, and Tony— Tony believes that too. 

He thinks he’d believe anything Peter told him. 


End file.
